Torment and torture have become so inelegant.Yes, holding a knife to a person's throat will scare themno matter how they deny it,but when you do finally drive that blade into their chestand their soul drains from their eyesthat's it.They are lost to you.A broken toy that you tore apartand enjoyed while it lasted.

This is such an outdated solution for your cravings.A waste of a perfectly good unwilling volunteer.The truest way to pump from them every last drop of precious fearis to never let their torment cease.

Allow them to feel that final impactthe blade's cutthe creatures many teeth tearing them apart,and let them think that it is the end for them.That this scream and gurgle will be their live's conclusion.

But do not allow their soul to soar off to whatever heaven or hell awaits them.Bring them back.It doesn't matter how.Just anchor them to their broken flesh and bone,their agonizing mind.Then they can be your plaything for as long as you see fit.And you can subject them to as many horrors as your twisted little mind can concoct.

We cannot be everything. Sad, but true.As the more we tear ourselves asunder,the less each part is given its just due.The more we yearn to revise our blunders,our regret thrums inside us like thunder.We have to pick and choose our battles here.To be a Shakespeare or a buccaneer.To be who we want, not who we should be.No matter how being everything endears,You are a person. A human. A me.

With every step I takeI drag my feet through pools of color,swirling waves radiating from meand mixing new intense undertones.

This is a world abandoned,unfinished.

The skeleton was sketched out.I see the bruised outlines of treesmaybe skyscrapers or towers in the distance,but they are shadesbarely distinguishable from a sky absent of clouds or stars.

With each new color I find,I hope that it will be the one to rekindle the life herethat seemed so promising at the beginning to our creator,but somehow fell short of expectationsor was just too boring.

If I can find it,then maybe my own hands can fill in the gapsand splatter the paint the way I've always wanted it to be.Maybe then, there will be others.Not just a single set of footprintsand a single pair of eyessearching the horizon for that creative spark.

A bow let loose to soarwithout an arrow in sight,dipping low and shooting high,calling forth notes and rhythms from the mind and breath.

Even from another city,I hear the bow dancingand taste the flurry of notes on my tongue,wishing I could be in the roomas you play,and that when I cheer for you at the end of every pieceyou could hear me.